


Get It Right

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Injury Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 07:32:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: "What's with the bag," he says, nodding at the large backpack she's toting with her. "You going on a hike?"She drops the bag onto the armchair. "Don't be an idiot. I'm staying here for a few days.Obviously."Or, the one where Bellamy gets injured, and the person who shows up to help him is the one he least expects—or so he thought.





	Get It Right

**Author's Note:**

> 100% inspired by my rl injury two weeks ago l m a o

 

 

 

Honestly, Bellamy's not even sure  _ how  _ it happened.

 

One minute he was rounding third base, and the next minute, he was on the ground, his right knee twisted inwards and under him at an unnatural angle. 

 

He'd sat out the rest of the game in hopes of shaking it off, but when the pain refused to subside, Miller had all but carried him into his car and drove him to the doctor, where he was told that he'd sprained his medial collateral ligament.

 

"You're lucky," Dr Cartwig told him matter-of-factly as she scribbled out a prescription for painkillers. "It could have been a proper tear."

 

He doesn't  _ feel  _ very lucky now, sitting sideways on his couch with an ice pack pressed to his throbbing knee and an  _ uncomfortably  _ plush cushion stuffed under his lower back. He has no idea which corner of his one-bedroom apartment Miller even unearthed the cushion from. He certainly doesn't remember  _ buying  _ it.  

 

"Please," he says when his phone starts ringing again, extending the device out to Miller with a desperate shake of his head. 

 

Miller readily grabs the phone, hitting the green button and bringing the device to his ear. "It's me, Jasper. He's here. No one blames you. Yes, he knows you're sorry. No, he doesn't hate you, Jasper. Stop calling, you're giving him a headache. Yeah, bye." He tosses the phone at Bellamy. "You know, it was  _ kind  _ of his fault."

 

"It's nobody's fault," Bellamy says, his head dropping back tiredly. "Thanks for taking me home, by the way."

 

"No problem," Miller says. He pulls his own phone out of his back pocket. "I could hang round for a bit. You hungry? I could run out and pick up food if you're—oh no."

 

Bellamy cracks an eye open. "Oh no what?"

 

"Nothing," Miller says quickly, jamming his phone back into his pocket. "On second thought, I'm gonna go. Take care, all right? Night."

 

"What," Bellamy says, watching bemusedly as Miller snatches up his jacket and hustles towards the door. "I thought you said you could hang for a bit—"

 

"Take your meds!" Miller hollers, and the door slams shut. 

 

"What the fuck," Bellamy mutters, but reaches for the TV remote. He's clearly not going anywhere for the next few days, so he might as well get started on his ever-growing Netflix watchlist. 

 

He's only about ten minutes into the first episode of the post apocalyptic show he's chosen when the front door bangs open, jerking him out of the mild pain-induced migraine he's been simmering in since leaving the doctor's. 

 

He cranes his neck around, pushing up unsteadily on his elbows to try and see who it is. "Who the—"

 

Of all people, he definitely does  _ not  _ expect the person marching straight into his living room. 

 

Clarke Griffin shifts a large brown grocery bag to perch against her hip, so she can glare at him without anything in the way. "What the hell did you do?!" 

 

His jaw drops, headache completely forgotten. "What the hell are you talking about?!"

 

"MCLs don't sprain themselves, Bellamy," she says tartly, charging over to direct her glare at his knee. "God. You really went and fucked your leg up, didn't you?"

 

He sits up properly in utter disbelief, his eyes following her as she turns and strides right into his kitchen, a large blue backpack attached to her shoulders. "Sorry, are you implying that me getting hit by a stray ball and falling over because of it was somehow  _ my  _ fault?!" 

 

"No, but you choosing to fall over like a dumbass _is_ your fault," she retorts from the kitchen, and he drops back down against the arm of the couch, actually shaking his fists in frustration. 

 

"Yeah," he says, mostly to himself, "because  _ that's  _ how injuries work."

 

"Don't get smart with me," she snaps, stalking past the couch on her way back to the front door hallway.  _ Oh, good,  _ Bellamy thinks sarcastically,  _ maybe she's leaving.  _

 

"Here, idiot." 

 

He turns his head at the pronouncement, and is caught off guard at the sight of—

 

"Um," he says, sitting up slowly. "Where the hell did you get  _ crutches?" _

 

Clarke rolls her eyes in that way that always makes him feel like shaking her. "From the hospital my mom works at.  _ Obviously."  _ She eyes him as he turns in his seat and carefully manoeuvres his legs over the edge of the couch to rest on the floor. "You do know how to use them, right?"

 

He cuts through his genuine surprise to shoot her a dour look. "It's two giant sticks, Clarke. I think I can figure out the complex mechanics behind two giant sticks."

 

"Great," she says flatly, and leans them against the side of the couch. "Lay back, moron. And keep that ice pack on there."

 

He doesn't move to follow her instructions, instead swivelling around to watch her walk back into the kitchen. "Where are you going?"

 

"To fix dinner," she bites back over her shoulder.  _ "Dumbass." _

 

 

* * *

 

 

To say that he and Clarke Griffin are frenemies would be putting it very,  _ very  _ politely.

 

The extent of the "friend" part of the word runs so far as that they both happen to be part of the same extended friend group, thanks to Monty and Jasper's inability to keep separate social lives.

 

The "enemies" part pretty much describes everything else about their relationship.

 

They're academic rivals, both of them vying for the top spot in at least three out of the four classes they share. They're social rivals, constantly jockeying with each other for reigning influence over the entire group's doings, from which bars they should go next to what foods they should eat when they meet up for dinner. 

 

They were  _ almost  _ romantic rivals once. Thank God they both quickly realised Maya's affections were already unwittingly won over by a certain shaggy-haired, lanky boy. 

 

All in all, they've more or less hated each other for the last year and a half. They're intrinsically familiar with each other, but it's almost entirely in terms of heated arguments and barbed snipes.

 

So suffice it to say that when Clarke Griffin strides back into his living room and shoves a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup at him, he has absolutely no idea how to react. 

 

"What, you injure your mouth, too?" she says, brandishing a spoon at him. 

 

"You gonna feed me if I did?" he challenges, taking the spoon with his free hand. He briefly considers feeling bad for his snippy tone, but he's just temporarily lost the use of his right leg,  _ and  _ the person who's basically his arch-nemesis showed up in his house an hour ago with a giant backpack and an armload of groceries to bring him  _ dinner,  _ and he can only handle so much unfamiliarity at one go. Fighting with Clarke Griffin is a good way to maintain some semblance of  _ balance  _ in this odd situation.

 

She snorts unceremoniously. "Don't hold your breath." She starts to walk away, and then she turns back and shakes a finger at him. "Also, don't burn your tongue. They don't make crutches for  _ that."  _

 

The entire time he's eating the soup—bought from a nearby diner, thank fuck. He would probably have a conniption if she'd actually  _ cooked  _ it— he can hear her banging about in the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards at a fast rate and closing them with the same amount of brisk efficiency. She's probably putting away the groceries he  _ didn't  _ ask for, but, God, he really hopes she's not robbing him blind while he's temporarily immobilised. 

 

"Take your medication," she says just as he swallows the last spoonful of soup, reappearing at his side with a glass of water. She trades the water for his empty bowl and grabs the small aluminium sheath of pills from the bag sitting on the side table next to the couch, arching an expectant brow at him. "Two pills."

 

"I know how to read a prescription," he says irately, but fishes two pills out and swallows them accordingly. 

 

Seemingly satisfied for a change, Clarke pivots on her heel to take the bowl back into the kitchen. He hears water running, and then the sounds of light scrubbing, and then more water running. 

 

"What's with the bag," he says once she returns to the living room, nodding at the large backpack she's toting with her. "You going on a hike?"

 

She drops the bag on the small armchair next to the couch. "Don't be an idiot. I'm staying here for a few days.  _ Obviously."  _

 

 

* * *

 

 

Enemy or not, Bellamy considers himself somewhat of a decent person, so even though he knows it's a losing battle from the start, he still tries to offer her the bedroom instead of the lumpy living room couch.

 

All his consideration earns him is a derisive snort from Clarke.

 

"Please," she says, fluffing up the extra pillow she'd retrieved from his closet. "You'd be lucky if you even make it off the bed tomorrow morning."

 

His irritation only builds the more they get settled for the night. For starters, Clarke has apparently taken it upon herself to yell at him every time he so much as moves to scratch his nose. She imperiously informs him that he's not to remove himself from the couch and that she's going to fetch him every little thing he needs, and flat-out  _ smacks _ him on the back of the head when he emerges from his bedroom to get himself a glass of water. She's also  _ scary  _ quick, bringing drinks and doing things for him before he can so much as open his mouth to ask. 

 

It's like having the world's best worst nurse in his apartment. 

 

_ "Don't be an idiot" _ is her constant refrain. He manages to hear it about six more times before the night is over. He's only surprised the echoes of it don't turn up in his dreams. 

 

_ What the fuck,  _ he texts Miller once he's alone and in bed, crutches propped against his nightstand.  _ You could've told me the princess decided to temporarily install herself in my own apartment.  _

 

_ I wanted to,  _ Miller replies almost immediately,  _ but she told me not to and tbh bro I'm way more scared of her than I am of you.  _

 

_ Coward,  _ he sends back, and upon seeing Miller's response—nothing but the GIF of Nick Kroll in a blonde wig and lip gloss nodding rapidly with bulging eyes—he sets his phone aside, rolls over, and goes to sleep.

 

Sometime in the middle of the night, he's rudely awoken by a sharp pain in his knee. He spreads his palm over his eyes, middle finger and thumb pressed to either temple as he grits his teeth hard in an attempt to ignore the agony rippling through his leg.

 

A knock sounds at his door, technically soft in volume but somehow unrelenting in tone. 

 

"I'd say come in, but it's not like you'd wait for an invitation," he says dryly as Clarke pads in, dressed in an oversized collegiate tee and soft cotton shorts. And then the pain flashes through his leg like a lightning bolt, making him arch his back and hiss softly, 

 

"Good to know you can run your mouth through the pain," she whispers back, sharp as knives. Despite the retort, she's already moving, grabbing his second pillow off the bed and reaching for his leg. Gently, she lifts his leg up by the ankle—and it speaks to his surprise and pain that he just  _ lets  _ her—and slides the pillow under his knee, settling his leg deftly on the soft lump.

 

The pain doesn't  _ leave,  _ exactly… but it definitely calms the fuck down.

 

He removes his hand from his eyes, glancing down at his propped-up leg and then at her. "Huh. You couldn't have told me that  _ before  _ I went to bed?"

 

"And miss the chance to see you suffer?" she shoots back on her way out the door. "You wish."

 

 

* * *

 

 

He hobbles out the next morning to the smell of butter and pancakes, hovering awkwardly in the open threshold of the kitchen as he watches Clarke Griffin ladle thick, creamy batter into a hot pan. 

 

"First batch is on the table," she says without looking over her shoulder. "Sit down."

 

He sits down at his tiny kitchen table accordingly, lowering himself carefully into the chair as he attempts to find a position that doesn't piss his sprained ligament off. "This feels like a fever dream."

 

Clarke snorts emphatically. "Wait till you see what I've got planned for lunch." She walks over to the table and sets a mug of steaming coffee in front of him. He picks it up as she walks right back to the stove, blowing across the top before taking a tentative sip. It's exactly the way he likes it—black with one sugar, and the  _ slightest  _ dash of milk. 

 

He picks up his fork, glancing over at her as he starts to cut into the small stack of fluffy pancakes on the plate before him. Her back is to him, and she's got one hand on her hip, propped upside down with the heel of her palm pointing upwards, like she's commanding the pancake to cook faster by sheer force of will. Her lapis blue college tee is big, but not so much that she looks naked under it. The hem of her grey sleep shorts falls just a couple inches past her ass, and damn but if the soft, worn-in look doesn't make his heart do a funny thing inside of his chest. 

 

He's probably just not used to seeing her like this, he reasons. All messy and homely. And making  _ pancakes.  _

 

He clears his throat, swallowing a large bite of pancake as he drags his eyes away from her frame and back onto his plate. "Do I wanna know how much rat poison you put in this?"

 

"Don't be ridiculous," Clarke says acidly, transferring the cooked pancake onto her own plate and bringing it to the small kitchen table. "I used arsenic."

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Octavia was twelve, she broke her leg trying some dumb stunt in gym class. She'd basically lived on the couch for the next six weeks, but it didn't stop her from trying to get off of it all the time. He'd been stressed as hell the entire time, hovering over her to make sure she didn't do anything to aggravate her leg or, worse, damage the uninjured one. 

 

What Clarke does isn't  _ hovering,  _ but it's pretty damn close to it. 

 

She spends most of the day working on some soon-due assignment at the kitchen table, but she seems to have some kind of weirdass sixth sense, because she materialises in the living room whenever he so much as breathes too hard—handing him another glass of water, bringing him his laptop, fetching him his PlayStation controllers when he gets bored of Netflix. She reminds him to email his professors to explain why he'll be missing class the next few days. She even plays a couple rounds of  _ Call of Duty _ with him, and he knows for a fact that it's only maybe her third or fourth time ever, but she's actually pretty damn decent at it. 

 

She chastises him constantly for forgetting to prop his leg up, for holding the ice pack wrong, for  _ "using the crutches weirdly",  _ but he gives it back to her as good as he gets, grumbling about her insufferable nagging and her nonstop complaints about the sorry state of his kitchen (it's not like he has a lot of time for  _ grocery shopping _ ), telling her to stop sticking her virtual nose down the zoom scope of her weapon because  _ "goddammit Clarke they're sneaking up on you RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"  _

 

Her aim is almost as good as his, though. Not that he'll ever admit it.

 

She makes grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup from a can for lunch, the smokey flavour of the gooey melted cheddar amped up by grilled mushrooms and crisp pickle slices. She catches him attempting to peel the bread apart in an attempt to figure out just what she did to make it taste so damn good, and rolls her eyes. "It's the bread," she says matter-of-factly, dropping into her little armchair with her own tray of grilled cheese and soup. "The secret is sourdough." 

 

She dips out after lunch for about an hour, and returns with a hinge brace from her mom's hospital. She sits next to him on the couch, and shows him how to strap it on over his leg and testing the fit. His knee is still a little too tender to wear it for long, but she takes it off pretty quickly. 

 

"You can start wearing it in another couple days," she says, placing the brace on the open bookshelf against the living room wall. "You'll need it for a few weeks at least."

 

"Ooh, fun," he says dryly.

 

He hadn't expected himself to be all that hungry, seeing as he's spent the entire day literally sitting on his ass, but he finds his stomach noisily clamouring to be filled by the time dinner rolls around. Clarke lines a large tray with baking paper and fills it with two large fillets of salmon as well as potatoes, zucchini, carrots and other vegetables, laying lemon slices over the fish and sprinkling a bunch of herbs and spices over the entire concoction before sliding it into his small oven.

 

She's the very first person to use that oven since he'd moved in. 

 

"When did you even find time to buy  _ salmon,"  _ he mutters as she serves him his plate. 

 

"Picked it up along with the arsenic," she says, sitting down across from him at his tiny kitchen table. 

 

She comes into his room just as he's settling down into bed and tosses a large tube of something at him.

 

"It's supposed to be good for sprains and shit," she says, leaning against the doorway. "Rub it gently into your leg."

 

"Jesus," he says, popping the top open and squirting a small dollop of cream out onto his palm. "You're like fucking Hermione with her magic bottomless purse. What else you got?"

 

"We'll save the weed brownies for when you're  _ really _ suffering," she says dryly, and he expects her to leave the room on that note, but she sticks around for a few minutes more as he rubs the cream into his knee, fetching him a wet wipe so he doesn't have to go to the bathroom to wash his hands, arranging his crutches neatly by his nightstand so they're within easy reach from the bed.

 

"You making pancakes tomorrow?" he asks as she heads towards the door.

 

"Definitely not," she says flatly, but there's a small quirk to her mouth when she turns to flip the light off. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

She makes oatmeal instead, rich and creamy and thick with honey and cinnamon and fresh cut chunks of apple laid over the top. It's almost better than pancakes, which is an opinion he certainly never thought he'd have about  _ oatmeal.  _

 

"So, does anyone else know your dirty little secret?" he says conversationally as they're finishing up their coffee, oatmeal bowls empty on the table.

 

She frowns at him over the rim of her cup. "What secret?"

 

He shrugs. "You're, like, some kind of Top Chef."

 

She rolls her eyes, but a hint of a pink blush blooms in her fair cheeks. "It's fucking  _ oatmeal, _ Bellamy."

 

Sometime after lunch, Miller drops by with some newer PlayStation offerings for Bellamy to play so he won't go out of his mind cycling through the same four games that he's already had for a couple of years.

 

Miller drops into Clarke's armchair when she disappears into the kitchen to get him another glass of water. "Huh," he says, his brow arched. "So you guys are doing this now."

 

"Doing what," Bellamy says, half-distracted with trying to adjust his leg cushion without having to turn his knee. 

 

"The domestic couple thing."

 

Bellamy stares at him, cushion forgotten. "Are you insane? We can't stand each other."

 

Miller snorts. "Sure looks like it." 

 

Clarke comes back into the room, and he's not sure if he's grateful that he doesn't get the opportunity to reply. "Looks like what?" she says, setting his water on the small side table and bending over the couch to adjust his leg for him.

 

Bellamy steadily ignores the look Miller shoots at him. "Looks like I won't be playing this week's game," he says, nonchalant.  _ God,  _ his leg really does feel better after Clarke stepped in.

 

"Damn right you won't," Clarke says immediately. "At least four weeks with the brace and physiotherapy, and then we'll talk."

 

"Yeah, Bellamy," Miller says, with a shit-eating grin. "Four weeks, and then we'll talk."

 

 

* * *

 

Clarke goes to class after breakfast the next day, and she's really only gone for about four or five hours, but fuck if he doesn't find himself  _ missing  _ her. Like a fucking pathetic loser.

 

He tells himself that he just misses having someone around to help him put his coffee mug back in the sink, or plug his laptop in to charge, or manually restart the PlayStation console when it goes on the fritz. He's been steeped in her overbearing presence for the last forty-eight hours, and now he's just a little off-kilter from all the newfound  _ freedom.  _ Nothing more.

 

She brings back club sandwiches from a fairly popular bistro near campus and plastic containers of pre-washed salad for lunch, and he usually  _ loves  _ the club sandwiches from Mecha, but he finds himself longing for more of her cooking. She cooks exactly like she argues—a little aggressive, a little too straight-forward, absolutely zero fuss or frills—but he's beginning to find that it suits him just fine. Like, he could really get  _ used  _ to it, no problem at all. 

 

"Monty and Jasper texted," she says as she's clearing their takeaway containers. "They asked if they could come visit tonight."

 

He frowns, looking about for his phone. "Really? I didn't get anything."

 

"They texted me."

 

He squints at her in confusion. "Why would they do that? It's  _ my  _ apartment."

 

"How the hell should I know?" she retorts, and starts towards the kitchen. "I told them you'd text them back yourself."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Monty and Jasper bring over a cardboard box of eclairs from a small bakery two streets from their dorm, handing them off to Clarke before sitting down on the chairs she'd dragged from the kitchen out to the living room. 

 

"Oh my God, oh my God," Jasper says, tugging frantically at his hair as he stares wide-eyed at Bellamy's leg. "Bellamy, I am  _ so  _ sorry. I'll pay for all this, I swear—"

 

"Don't worry about it," Bellamy says firmly. "Not like you meant to hit me. Besides, the campus head of welfare is pretty confident that the field insurance will cover most of it."

 

"They'd better," Clarke says darkly as she emerges from the kitchen, handing two bowls of pasta to Jasper and Monty. "Anyway, my mom spoke to the dean and the hospital is willing to offer a subsidy on the physiotherapy, so there's that."

 

"Holy shit," Monty says when she goes back into the kitchen, staring at his bowl. "Did Clarke _ make _ this?!"

 

Bellamy shrugs. "She's actually kind of an amazing cook. Who knew, right?"

 

"Clarke  _ cooks _ ?!" Jasper squawks, just as Clarke re-enters the living room. At first, Bellamy tenses up, ready to come to her defense with a cutting remark—but she doesn't seem the slightest bit fazed by Jasper's unabashed disbelief. 

 

"Only out of necessity," she says, handing Bellamy another bowl of pasta before sitting down in her little armchair with her own. 

 

An hour later, Jasper's in the armchair with a PlayStation controller and Bellamy's on one side of the couch with the other. Clarke's on the other end of the couch, deep in conversation with Monty as they polish off the last of the eclairs. Bellamy's gaze drifts to her profile in between loading maps, and he's struck by how bright her smile is. He's seen it once or twice over the last couple of days, but he hadn't really noticed just how much it lights up her  _ entire  _ face until right now.

 

"Dude, it's go time," Jasper says. "Um,  _ hello?"  _

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You really think the hospital would be able to subsidise my physio?"

 

She looks up from where she's perched on the side of his bed, gently rubbing anti-inflammation cream into his leg. "I mean, my mom definitely thinks it's a strong possibility. They just started this new scheme for student healthcare. You're a student, and you work part time, but you're still classed in a lower income bracket, so you're more or less a sure thing."

 

He nods, watching her work for a while. She makes one last pass over his knee and nods to herself, screwing the cap back onto the tube.

 

"Thanks for checking it out for me."

 

She blinks, her hands stilling. It's the first time in three days of this weird arrangement that he's actually said the T-word out loud to her. 

 

"You're welcome," she says, her voice steady even if her rhythm is ever so slightly stilted.

 

He falls asleep to thoughts of her small hands rubbing over his leg in light circles. 

 

* * *

 

 

He heads back to class on day four. Mostly because he's pretty sure he'll go crazy if he has to sit on his lumpy couch for a minute more, but also because he happens to share both his Thursday classes with Clarke, so it's a lot easier to manage.

 

They've sat together before in lectures and stuff, but usually out of a stiff sort of obligation, like if they're working a group project together, or if one of them happens to be a minute or two late and the only other option left is the awkward front row. 

 

This is a little different. Clarke wordlessly helps him with his notebooks and things, setting his crutches aside so they're not blocking anybody's view or path, picking up his pen when it rolls off his flimsy lecture desk. She shows him her notes from the previous class when the Professor Jaha makes a reference that goes over his head, without him even asking or looking at her.

 

At the end of the second class, Raven stops by their lecture hall to say hello. Midway through the conversation, Clarke excuses herself and runs down the steps to catch Professor Pike with a question about the upcoming assignment.

 

"So, what's going on with you two?"

 

Bellamy blinks under the weight of Raven's stare. He knows she doesn't quite  _ mean  _ to make people uncomfortable, but it's just that she can be so  _ direct.  _ "What do you mean?"

 

She rolls her eyes. "I've had, like, five people text me today saying they saw you in class or in the cafeteria and you guys were acting all weird. Plus, Miller says you guys are basically roomies now?"

 

"We're not roomies," Bellamy says immediately, but he's surprised at how much the word stings. Weirdly enough, it's not even because he's offended or outraged at being associated with Clarke Griffin. It's just… well.  _ Roomies  _ is too flippant a term for what they've been doing all week. "She's just staying over to help me out while I'm… like this." He gestures at his brace-wrapped leg. 

 

Raven's gaze flicks down to his knee. "Oh. Cool." Her eyes flick back up to meet his. "Um.  _ Why." _

 

He opens and closes his mouth. "I—I don't  _ know.  _ She's being a good friend." 

 

Even to his ears, it sounds much more like a question than a statement of fact. Even if Raven weren't already fully aware of his prickly history with Clarke, having had a front row seat to most of their showdowns, it's hard to imagine she would be convinced by his poor delivery.

 

Raven snorts, and tosses her ponytail. "Right. Sure."

 

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Clarke comes in as usual to bring him a glass of water and fluff his pillows. 

 

He watches as she rubs absently at her lower back. His lumpy, tiny couch can't possibly be good for anyone through a whole night's sleep, let alone three. 

 

"Just a suggestion," he says, popping his pills out of their aluminium package, "but why don't you just sleep here?"

 

Her gaze snaps to his. "What?"

 

He shrugs. "It's not like I don't have the space," he says, waving at the unoccupied left side of the bed. He's never been a spread-out-right-in-the-middle kind of guy. "And I don't think my shitty couch is doing you any favours. What's the point of you staying here if you're gonna throw out your back?"

 

She rolls her eyes, but nods thoughtfully. "Okay, yeah. Eat your pills. I'll go get my phone."

 

Clarke's expression is nonchalant when she returns, but her movements are a little hesitant as she climbs into bed next to him. 

 

"Don't worry," he says dryly. "I'll save the whole climbing-on-top-of-you-to-ravish-you for when my knee stops feeling like it's been doused in hellfire."

 

"Oh, good," she says, just as sarcastic. "Would hate to think it was me that was killing the mood for you."

 

He smiles to himself when she turns over on her side so her back is to him. At least she's a hell of a lot more relaxed than she was two minutes ago.

 

They leave a good foot or so of space between them on the bed, but even so, he sleeps better than he has all week. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

His follow-up appointment is on a Saturday, and he doesn't even think about whether or not he wants Clarke to be there, but he finds himself somewhat relieved when she automatically gets up from the waiting room chair to follow him into the examination room. 

 

"That's definitely healing nicely," Dr Cartwig says approvingly. "I think you're ready to start physiotherapy soon. Have you got anything set up for that?"

 

"He'll go to my mom's hospital," Clarke pipes up. "Arkadia General."

 

The doctor nods. "Ah yes, they have an excellent physio department there. You'll be in good hands, Mr. Blake."

 

"I can quit using the crutches now, right?" he asks, wiggling restlessly on the examination bed. 

 

"I would say yes, but you could always use them for one more day if you wanted to be extra safe."

 

He rolls his eyes, shooting a look at Clarke. "Told you I could ditch the sticks."

 

"Well,  _ forgive  _ me if I was reluctant to trust your professional opinion on the matter," Clarke snipes back readily, folding her arms across her middle. 

 

Dr Cartwig smiles at them. "Always helpful to have a significant other in situations like these. Your girlfriend's clearly done a great job keeping you off your feet, Mr. Blake."

 

Clarke's arms loosen. "Oh," she says, a faint flush warming her cheeks. "I don't—uh."

 

"You can start with physio anytime you're ready," Dr Cartwig continues, too busy making notes on her clipboard to notice their expressions. "In the meantime, if you need anything for administrative reasons—an official letter or a medical certificate, for example—feel free to let the front desk know. Otherwise, you're good to go, Mr. Blake."

 

 

* * *

 

Clarke is acting weird. 

 

He feels weird, but not so much because she's acting weird. The hyper-awareness tingling uncomfortably on the skin of his neck is more about him realising that over all the time they've known each other, they've never been _ weird _ around each other before. They were always too busy picking a fight to be anything but themselves. 

 

She clears her throat. "So my mom put us in touch with a good physiotherapist. I already called him to set up your first appointment. You'll need at least one session a week for the next month, depending on your progress."

 

He nods. "Okay." He almost says  _ thanks  _ again, but he figures it'll be safer not to rock the boat any more than has already been done. 

 

She hovers awkwardly by the couch. "I should get started on some work."

 

He gives her a look. It's  _ ten-thirty A.M  _ on a Saturday. No one actually  _ wants  _ to do work at ten-thirty on a Saturday. Not even Clarke Griffin. 

 

He gestures between them. "Can we not be awkward about this?"

 

Her gaze whips up to meet his. "What do you mean?" 

 

"Dr. Cartwig made an offhand assumption," he says, his voice coming out a lot steadier than he feels. "It was an honest mistake. It doesn't have to be a whole  _ thing, _ right?"

 

He's not even sure if he's saying the right words now, but apparently he hasn't fucked up yet, because Clarke's shoulders visibly ease off from their rigid set. 

 

"Besides, anyone who knows us knows we hate each other," he continues breezily, adjusting his leg so it rests comfortably on the couch. "So what if some random stranger made a dumb snap judgement about us? They don't know us, so we don't have to be awkward about it. Right?"

 

"Okay," she says, a small lift at the corner of her mouth. "We can not be awkward about this." 

 

"Okay," he says, relaxing back into the couch. "Great."

 

"But I do have to go."

 

His brows snap together. "Go? Go where?"

 

She shrugs. "Back home."

 

He swallows. Where the fuck did the giant lump in his throat come from? Why is he getting this weird clenching feeling in his lower back? He was perfectly  _ fine  _ a minute ago. 

 

"Oh," he says. Why does he feel so goddamn  _ blindsided  _ by this? It's not like she ever promised to stay for as long as he's injured. "Um. Yeah. Okay." 

 

"Can I borrow your car?"

 

He frowns. "My car?"

 

She nods. "I mean, I can carry my duffel bag on the bus, but I'd rather not."

 

He keeps willing the frustrating haze of confusion to clear from his brain, but it stays put. "Wait. Why do you need your duffel bag?"

 

"How else am I supposed to carry my stuff?" she says. "I need to get more clothes and shit if I'm gonna crash here a while longer."

 

Relief floods through him so hard and fast, he barely even remembers to conceal it. "Oh.  _ Oh." _

 

He apparently leaves it at that ridiculous non-answer for far too long, because Clarke fidgets and folds her arms over her middle. "I mean, unless you'd rather I not come back—"

 

"It's fine, you can take my car," he says, a little too hastily.  _ Shit.  _ He needs a quick recovery. "Knowing your shitty balance, you're just gonna trip and fall on the bus, and all that's gonna do is leave us with two useless people instead of one."

 

She rolls her eyes. "Asshole." She grabs her phone, slotting it into her pocket as she heads towards the front door. "I'll bring lunch back with me." 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He heads back to his regular class schedule on Monday, but Clarke puts her foot down when it comes to work.

 

"You can't spend six hours on your feet, dumbass," she says when he mentions it in passing. "You can barely make the walk from the car to class."

 

His boss tells him not to worry about it, but he still feels bad enough about it to apologise to Miller, who steps up to cover most of his shifts. 

 

"Dude, don't stress," Miller says over the phone. "I could use the extra money anyway. Wanna get a flight home next month to surprise my dad for his birthday." 

 

His first physiotherapy session takes place on Tuesday, and the physiotherapist immediately waves off the polite introductions Clarke tries to make and tells Bellamy to just call him by his first name, which immediately wins him a couple points in Bellamy's book. 

 

"You could wait here at the front," Lincoln says, looking at Clarke, "but I can't guarantee it'll be very comfortable. Maybe you'd want to check out one of the hospital restaurants instead?"

 

She readily shakes her head. "It's fine, I've got stuff to do anyway," she says, dropping into the nearest chair in front of the reception desk and pulling her laptop out from her backpack. 

 

Bellamy has his reservations about the session, but Lincoln is reassuring and patient, putting him at ease with his quietly confident way and gentle but firm voice. He explains the physiotherapy process to Bellamy, gives him a ten-minute massage that doesn't really feel all that intense but leaves him feeling better than he has all week, and even has him walking semi-normally by the end of the first session. Seriously, by the end of everything, Bellamy almost develops a crush on the guy. 

 

"Thanks for waiting, Clarke," Lincoln says when he escorts Bellamy back to the front. "Good to see you."

 

She snaps her computer closed and jumps up. "No problem. Good to see you too, Lincoln."

 

"Were you working on that essay for Pike?" he demands the second they get into the car.   
  


She sniffs, and turns the key in the ignition. "Maybe."

 

His jaw drops in mock incredulity. They'd spent half of Sunday working on that thing together. "No fair. Now you're ahead."

 

She rolls her eyes as she pulls them out of the parking lot. "You can catch up while I'm busy making dinner, dumbass."

 

He settles back into his seat, momentarily pacified. "Lincoln's pretty good," he says after a brief but comfortable silence.

 

Clarke nods. "Yeah, he's only a few years older than you but he's basically already the best physio in Arkadia."

 

He thinks about that for a beat. "So," he begins, suddenly finding it a challenge to appear sincerely casual, "you two, uh, know each other?"

 

She makes a non-committal gesture with a hand. "We were both doing pre-med at one point in time, before I switched majors. He was a senior while I was a first-year. We used to run into each other at a bunch of parties and school events." 

 

"Oh," he says, trying not to think about why the skin across his chest feels so  _ hot.  _ "So you guys weren't exactly  _ friends  _ friends?"

 

"Sort of?" Clarke says, oblivious to his inexplicable state of discomfort. "We hung out alone a couple times, if that counts."

 

"Like a date?" he blurts out.  _ Nice.  _

 

She frowns at the road. "Not really? At least, I don't think so. We were just kind of the only people in our social circles who were into art and stuff." 

 

"Oh." It's like a giant lump of steel dissolves from his gut. "Okay. Cool."

 

Clarke glances at him questioningly. "Why, did he say something?"

 

"Nope," he says quickly. "Nothing at all."

 

 

* * *

 

Okay, here's the thing.

 

Bellamy is aware that Clarke is, objectively speaking, kind of a hottie. 

 

The golden waves? The big baby blues? The smokey, husky voice? The quick, dry wit? The curvy figure? 

 

He may be an idiot, but he's not  _ blind. _

 

He's also aware that she's dated her fair share of people. She was already with Niylah when their friend groups merged. Pretty much everyone in the group knows about the pre-law girlfriend she had freshman year and her clingy, possessive high school boyfriend. 

 

She has her hook-ups. Hell, who doesn't? Looking at his own list of casual fuck buddies, he'd be a shitty one to judge. 

 

But he's never really let himself  _ think  _ all that hard about it before.

 

The timing was just never really right, he supposes. She had Niylah when they first met. He started dating Gina a couple weeks after Clarke and Niylah broke up. By the time that was over, he and Clarke were already too deeply accustomed to hating each other all the time. 

 

But for some reason, with each passing day of living under the same roof as her, it dawns upon him with steadily increasing acuteness that he's currently sharing a  _ very  _ small one-bedroom apartment with a really,  _ really  _ hot, smart, funny, beautiful woman. That he's spending a good ninety-five percent of his time with said woman. That he's sharing a  _ bed  _ with her. 

 

It also dawns on him that as much as he and Clarke continue to treat each other with close to zero tact and/or delicacy, they haven't had an actual  _ fight  _ in… well. Not in the entire time since he got injured. 

 

Huh. 

 

It's probably just because she feels bad for him or something. Like, she'd probably feel like a bully picking on him while he's temporarily incapacitated, so she's just saving up the bickering and the arguments for when he's healthy and whole again. 

 

Probably.

 

Whatever. He's managed to refrain from being attracted to Clarke Griffin for nearly two years now. He can manage it a while longer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You're late," Raven accuses when they walk up to the table. "First round on you guys."

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, but she quickly retrieves her wallet, hands her purse to Bellamy and heads off to the bar. 

 

"Hello to you all too," Bellamy says dryly, easing himself gently into a chair. It's a lot easier for him to move around now as long as he's got the brace on, but things that require a lot of bending and flexing are still a little tricky. 

 

"How's your leg?" Jasper asks earnestly from across the table. 

 

"Good, good," Bellamy says. "Got another physio session next Tuesday. Doctor says I should be completely back to normal in another three or four weeks."

 

"Thank fuck," Miller says, clapping him on the back. "Full offense to Atom, but he sucks playing catcher."

 

"I offered to catch while you're gone," Jasper pipes up. "But Miller wouldn't let me."

 

"Hell no," Miller says emphatically. "We need someone who can actually  _ block _ home plate, not go cartwheeling over whenever anyone so much as  _ touches—"  _

 

Monty blows a giant raspberry. "Yay sportsball," he says, waving his hands in pretend enthusiasm.

 

Raven throws a napkin at Miller. "And you guys give us shit whenever we say anything  _ remotely  _ scientific."

 

"Science is boring," Miller argues, throwing the napkin back at her. "Sportsball  _ isn't."  _

 

Clarke's husky tone cuts through the warm buzz of the bar and the beginnings of Raven bristling at Miller. "Settle down, kids," she says, setting a tray of two large beer pitchers and a stack of glasses down. "It's fun juice time."

 

All throughout the night, Bellamy is pleasantly aware of how much he fucking loves his friends. He's missed spending time with them like this,  They rib him about his leg, compare notes about the professors they love and the ones they hate, talk over each other about movies and TV shows, share stories about all the annoying people they've been stuck with for group projects this semester. 

 

Four pitchers of beer, two large baskets of truffle fries and one of onion rings later, they're getting up to leave. Clarke and Monty head off towards the back for one last restroom stop while they amble leisurely towards the exit.

 

"Need a ride?" Miller says, twirling a keyring around on his finger. "Borrowed my roommate's car for the night."

 

"Nah, it's cool," Bellamy says automatically, shifting his weight carefully to his good leg as they stop on the pavement outside the bar. "Clarke's driving us back."

 

Raven frowns. "Clarke has a car?"

 

"No, she's driving mine."

 

"Oh," Jasper says, brows knitted together. "Then how's Clarke getting home from your place?"

 

"She's not," Bellamy says.

 

Three pairs of eyes swivel round to fix on him.

 

"She's crashing at your place for the night?" Raven asks.

 

"Yeah. I mean, no, not for the night. She's been helping me out while my leg's fucked." He fidgets, quickly growing deeply uncomfortable under the combined weight of their sudden scrutiny. "It's not like you didn't all  _ know." _

 

Miller shakes his head. "Hold on. Do you mean she's been staying with you the  _ entire  _ time?" 

 

"Yeah," Bellamy repeats, but with less certainty. 

 

Jasper tilts his head, his gaze travelling over Bellamy's frame and down to his braced knee. "But… but you can  _ walk."  _

 

"So?"

 

_ "So,"  _ Raven says, light from a streetlamp glinting off her dark eyes. "It's one thing to stay with a friend to help them out for a couple days if they're injured. It's another to practically  _ live _ with them for  _ two weeks  _ when they're technically already able to walk."

 

He exhales sharply. "Look, what's the difference? She's just helping a friend out. She'd do the same for any of you."

 

"No, she wouldn't," Raven says flatly. "Besides, since when are you guys even  _ friends?  _ I thought you hated each other."

 

The silence that follows her pronouncement is deafening. The sound of car tyres skidding in the distance rips through the balmy night air. He looks to Miller and Jasper for back-up, but both of them are looking at him not with sympathetic grimaces, but with twin frowns of confusion and curiosity. 

 

"We're  _ friends,"  _ he says after a very long, very awkward pause. "We've had our fights, but we're friends."

 

Raven snorts. "Sure. Let's go with that."

 

"Let's go with what?"

 

He turns around a little too quickly at the sound of Clarke's voice. She reaches out to catch him by the elbow as he stumbles a little, his damaged knee giving way slightly at the too-sudden torque. 

 

"Ah, fuck," he mutters through gritted teeth, hopping slightly on his good leg.

 

"You shouldn't be standing out here like this." Clarke steps closer to him, her other hand wrapping supportively around his forearm as she frowns at his knee. "Why didn't you just wait inside?"

 

Miller looks at him, a grim smile curving across his mouth. "Because he's a  _ dumbass." _

 

Clarke glances at Bellamy questioningly. 

 

"Ignore that," Raven says authoritatively, flapping her hand at them. "You guys should get home. See you Monday."

 

 

* * *

 

He tries not to let it get to him. He really does.

 

But he goes through the entire weekend unable to sleep because he's strung too tight, so he just stays up half the night listening to the soft sounds of Clarke breathing next to him and replaying the conversation outside the bar and everything over the last two weeks again and again in his head, like a badly edited movie playing without a pause or stop button. 

 

By Sunday, he can't take it anymore.

 

"Can I ask you a question?"

 

Clarke gives him a strange look. It's understandable. They've never asked each other for permission to do  _ anything  _ before. "Yeah, I guess. What's up?"

 

He shifts on the couch, lowering the volume on the TV by a couple notches before looking at her again. "Do you think you should leave?"

 

Her brow furrows. "Leave where?"

 

He gestures at the living room around them. "I mean  _ leave  _ leave." 

 

Her frown shifts from confused into something almost wary. "Oh." She pauses, her lips pressing together to form a thin line. "Why, do you think I should leave?"

 

He tosses the remote aside, letting his head drop back against the couch exhaustedly. "I don't  _ know.  _ Honestly, I don't even know what the fuck's going on anymore."

 

She turns towards him. "Well, you must have  _ some  _ kind of opinion about it, or you wouldn't have asked."

 

"That's not what I— _ Christ. _ Never mind. Forget I asked."

 

She snatches the remote out of his reach when he tries to pick it up again. "No, don't do that. Just  _ tell _ me if you have some kind of problem."

 

"I would," he half snaps at her, "but I just said I don't  _ know.  _ Can we stop talking about this now?"

 

She refuses to hand the remote back over when he holds out his hand for it. "Do you want me to go? Is that your problem?"

 

"Jesus  _ fuck, _ Clarke," he bursts out. "Why the hell did you even  _ come  _ here?!"

 

She blinks at him. "What?"

 

Well, fuck. Nothing for it but to keep going at this point.

 

"What are you  _ doing  _ here?" he asks. "We were barely even friends before this. We couldn't even go ten minutes without fighting about something or other. Why'd you come on over here the minute I got hurt?" 

 

"I don't—"

 

He knows he should let her speak. He's the one asking her questions, after all. What's the point if he doesn't give her a chance to answer? 

 

But it's like a fucking  _ dam's  _ been broken, and try as he might, he can't seem to get himself to shut up now that he's started.

 

"Don't try and tell me it's just a friend thing, because I know you love Raven and the others, but you wouldn't go to these lengths for any of them. And you know what, before I hurt my leg, I was damn sure you liked all of them a hell of a lot better than you ever did me." He inhales frustratedly. "We can't stand each other, and you  _ definitely _ don't owe me shit, so why've you been spending all your time and energy the last two weeks taking  _ care  _ of me like it's your  _ job?"  _

 

She springs up from the couch, her cheeks looking visibly flushed. "Are you seriously asking me that question? Are you  _ seriously _ asking me that question after all that's happened?" 

 

He gestures wildly with his hands. "Is there someone  _ else  _ I should ask?!"

 

Her mouth snaps shut, her jaw trembling. Suddenly, she nods—a sharp, quick dip of her chin.

 

"You know what?" she says, her voice eerily steady. "You're right. I should leave."

 

It takes about two milliseconds for the guilt to ram straight into him, a tidal wave of regret slamming against his chest.

 

"No," he says as she stalks away and towards the bedroom. "Hang on, that's not what I meant. Clarke—"

 

His bedroom door slams shut. 

 

"Shit," he says, getting to his feet as fast as he can. "Shit, shit, shit."

 

He doesn't wear the brace around the house, so he's a lot slower than he'd like. She's ripping out her charger from the wall socket by the time he gets to the bedroom, her duffel bag already haphazardly stuffed full, like she'd literally thrown her things into it.

 

"Clarke," he says, hobbling into the room. "Look, that didn't come out right. I'm just trying to say… this whole thing is  _ confusing,  _ okay? I don't really know what I'm doing here, and—would you just slow down?"

 

In response, she grabs her bag and backpack where it's leaning against the wall and brushes right past him. 

 

_ "Clarke."  _ With a bit of difficulty, he turns around and follows her out of the room, watching her through the open bathroom door as she snatches her shampoo and conditioner from the shower and throws it into her bag. "Are you seriously not talking to me now?"

 

"Why should I," she says, her tone bitterly flat. "It's not like we're even  _ friends." _

 

He cringes. Okay, he probably deserves that.

 

"That's not what I meant," he says, limping after her as she charges out of the bathroom and down the hallway. "Look, you don't have to  _ go  _ over this—"

 

"No, I think I really should."

 

He slows, out of breath from the sudden bout of moving around after two weeks of basically sitting on the couch. "Come on, Clarke. Don't do this."

 

Standing at the mouth of the short hallway that leads to the front door, she whirls around, eyes blazing. "Why not? Why  _ shouldn't _ I go, Bellamy?"

 

He pauses, one hand braced against the wall for support as his mind races through possible answers.  _ Because you're my friend.  _ Not good enough.  _ Because I'm used to having you around.  _ So what?  _ Because I'm really regretting having ever said anything to begin with.  _ Not her problem, is it. 

 

Clarke nods, a smile curving across her mouth. It's bitter and sad, and he hates seeing it there. 

 

"That's what I thought," she mutters, before turning around and walking out the door. 

 

 

* * *

 

At first, he thinks maybe he's okay.

 

After all, he has fights with Clarke all the time. Sure, he was a dumbass to her, and sure, he said some really tactless shit to her, but it was  _ far  _ from the first time. Hell, probably won't be the last, either. They've always been fine regardless. Why should this time be any different?

 

But then he sees her in Jaha's class on Monday, carefully ignoring him from a seat two rows behind him and about ten seats down the line, and fuck, okay. He didn't quite expect  _ that  _ to hurt like it does. 

 

On Tuesday, he goes to see Lincoln and Lincoln casually asks where she is, which makes him feel like shit all over again.

 

He texts her on Wednesday to let her know he tried making his own dinner instead of ordering in and ended up destroying his one good pot beyond repair, but he gets no reply. According to the message status, she doesn't even  _ open  _ the text. 

 

By Thursday, he's torn between wanting to apologise to her, and telling himself he has absolutely nothing to apologise for. "Never apologise for being honest," he reminds himself as he's waiting for the takeaway he ordered to arrive. 

 

That usually makes him feel better. 

 

For some reason, it doesn't now.

 

On Friday evening, he gets a call from Miller. 

 

"Hey, drinks at Monty and Jasper's in an hour? They finished a new home brew and they want  _ opinions."  _

 

He hits pause on the TV. A tasting session at Monty and Jasper's place usually means the entire group is invited. He's not so sure Clarke even wants to see his face right now, let alone spend an entire evening in the same room as him. "Um," he says. "I don't know."

 

"Why, you going somewhere?" Miller snorts readily. "Not with that leg, you're not!"

 

"I can  _ walk,  _ asshole," he says, but his irritation is only half-hearted. He clears his throat. "Is Clarke coming?"

 

"I don't know? Why d'you think I'm calling you?"

 

He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. "Yeah. About that. She's not here."

 

"What do you mean, like she just stepped out, or she's in the bathroom, or—"

 

"I mean she's not here."

 

A long pause.

 

"Oh," Miller says, some of the laughter dissolving from his voice. "Okay. Um. That's—oh hang on, I'm getting a text."

 

There's a small rustle over the phone as Bellamy waits, his gut slowly twisting itself into knots. He hasn't really spoken all that much with any of their friends over the week, but he'd thought  _ Clarke  _ might have told them she wasn't staying at his place anymore. Guess she's been keeping to herself, too.

 

There's a fumbling noise, and then Miller's voice returns. "Okay, Monty says he texted Clarke to ask and she said she's not coming, so he's asking if that means you're not either."

 

He sits up on the couch. "What do you mean she's not coming? Did she say why?"

 

"Not that Monty knows," Miller says slowly. "Hey, uh, I was trying not to be that guy, but I feel like I have to ask—are you guys okay?"

 

Making a split second decision, Bellamy flips the TV off altogether and pushes himself up off the couch. "No, we're not. But hopefully not for long."

 

"Wow, detail overload. But seriously, do you need something? I could give you a ride somewhere?"

 

"No," Bellamy says, grabbing his keys and limping as fast as he can towards the door. "No, I got it. Tell Monty and Jasper I'll have to pass on tonight, okay?"

 

"Okay," Miller says. "Can I just ask, what the  _ fuck _ is happening?"

 

Oh, God. His heart feels like it's  _ literally  _ swelling in his chest. But then again, it might just be from the rush of oxygen circulation. "I'm not too sure," he says honestly. "But I'm just gonna go with it."

 

"Fair. Good luck anyway!"

 

For the first time the entire week, Bellamy smiles.  "Thanks."

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he arrives at Clarke's door, half of him fully expects her to ignore him.

 

But she answers the door mere seconds after he knocks, her brows dipping downwards in surprise.

 

"I thought you'd be at Monty and Jasper's," she says in lieu of a greeting.

 

"I thought  _ you'd  _ be at Monty and Jasper's," he shoots back. 

 

Her mouth presses into a thin line. "I'm busy tonight."

 

He pointedly lets his gaze travel over her oversized collegiate tee and sleep shorts attire. "Think you could take five minutes out from your overstuffed schedule to hear me out?"

 

She bristles, hands planting on her hips. "You know, if this is your shitty way of apologising to me, you can—"

 

"It's not."

 

She blinks, looking caught off guard. "What the hell are you talking about?"

 

Taking a deep breath, he goes for it. "Look. I did a terrible fucking job trying to tell you where I was at that day. But I'm not here to apologise for it, because you know what? I didn't  _ actually  _ say anything wrong."

 

Her eyes narrow sharply. "Have you  _ made  _ an apology before?"

 

The giddy urge to smile rushes through him.  _ Angry  _ Clarke, he can deal with. "Think about it, Clarke. We  _ weren't  _ friends before I fucked up my leg. We  _ couldn't  _ stand each other before. Everything you did for me, you  _ wouldn't  _ have done it for anyone else. You can be mad at me for saying all that stuff, but it doesn't make any of it less true." 

 

Clarke visibly hesitates at that, and he decides to keep going while he's got some traction. "But," he says, his smile fading slightly, "none of that is the point, because I know what I'm trying to say now."

 

"Fine," Clarke grits out, arms folding across her chest. "What are you trying to say, then."

 

Taking a chance, he steps a little closer on his good leg. "I was trying to say that things between us have  _ changed.  _ A lot. It's not just about being friends or not, because I think deep down, both of us always knew we've been friends all along, fucked leg or no. But somewhere in the last two weeks, the way I feel about you changed. And I don't know how or why, and I'm not gonna pretend I do, but all I know is that I  _ like  _ how I feel now. I  _ like  _ how we are together now." He holds up a hand at her sudden frown. "Not like  _ right this second  _ now. I just meant…  _ now.  _ I like  _ this _ version of us. And to be honest, I think I only fought with you for so long because I knew that if I didn't, I would end up liking you more than any other person I know."

 

Clarke's expression completely changes at that, her eyes snapping to his and searching as if desperate to believe him. He swallows, and takes another step closer.

 

"I  _ am  _ sorry about letting you think we weren't friends. And I  _ am  _ sorry I couldn't come right out and tell you this before, but—fuck—okay, here goes—I don't just like you. I  _ want  _ you. And not just as a friend."

 

He exhales, but it feels like the air is caught in his chest as he waits for her response. Jesus, his cheeks and neck feel like they're on fire by now. Has it always been this  _ nerve-wracking  _ to tell someone he maybe fancies them?! 

 

Finally, Clarke drops her arms to her sides and looks at him. "I'm not sure what to say now."

 

He considers that for a moment. "Would it help if I started a fight?"

 

The corner of her mouth quirks upwards. "This is pathetic, but I actually genuinely feel like yeah, it would." 

 

He grins, and then winces slightly. "I can do that. But first, do you mind if I use your couch for a bit? It's been a while since I've stood for this long without my brace on."

 

"Without your—" She glances down at his leg, her brows shooting up into her hairline. "Jesus Christ! Where the  _ fuck  _ is your brace?!"

 

"I forgot to put it on," he says wryly, letting himself be dragged into the apartment by an extremely irate Clarke Griffin. 

 

"How do you  _ forget  _ to put your brace on," she scolds as she leads him into her living room, one hand on his elbow and the other on his back as she helps him to her couch. "It's been nearly  _ three weeks, _ Bellamy. It's supposed to be second nature by now.  _ God,  _ you really  _ are  _ such a dumbass."

 

He catches her wrist as she starts to step back, tugging her down onto the couch beside him. "But I'm  _ your  _ dumbass. Right?"

 

She rolls her eyes, but it's half a beat late behind her rosy blush and slightly dopey smile. "Yeah, yeah," she says.  _ "My  _ dumbass."

 

She only manages to hold his gaze for a second before dropping her eyes to his shirt collar. His mouth splits in a wide grin at the uncharacteristic display. It's… weirdly endearing. "Clarke. Are you getting  _ shy  _ on me now?"

 

She stiffens, but the pink flush on her cheeks darkens visibly. "What.  _ No. _ Shut up, I'm not  _ sh—"  _

 

Before today, he probably would have let her turn it into another fight, just so they could return to familiar ground.

 

Now, he does exactly what he  _ wants  _ to do, and leans in and kisses her until there are no more wisecracks and barbs and arguments to hide behind. 

  
  
  
  
  


"Ugh, get a  _ room,"  _ Raven says, throwing a beer nut at them. But she's smiling nonetheless, her mouth curved and eyes crinkled as she watches them pull apart to the sounds of Jasper's enthusiastic applause.

 

"Let's just count ourselves lucky they can't sneak off to the bathroom to have sex yet," Monty says. 

 

"Let's just count ourselves lucky they can't have sex yet," Miller says. He looks at them over his beer bottle. "Wait.  _ Can  _ you have sex yet?"

 

"In another week or two," Clarke says, settling comfortably into the crook of Bellamy's arm. "But we're good with waiting. Gonna need him fully recovered for what I've got planned."

 

Jasper immediately stuffs his fingers into his ears and starts singing  _ "lalalala",  _ very loudly and very tonelessly.  

 

"Wait, can I ask," Monty says, leaning forward. "Aren't you guys worried about that? Like, what if after all this time, you  _ finally _ sleep together and the sex turns out to be… bad?"

 

"That's impossible," Miller says authoritatively. "No two people who fight like they do could possibly have bad sex. It's practically science."

 

Raven throws another beer nut at him. "Oh, so  _ now  _ you care about science."

 

Bellamy shrugs. "It's okay. We're not expecting perfect." He grins, glancing at Clarke. "Whatever happens, we'll have plenty of time ahead of us to try and get it right."

 

She smiles, and presses a firm kiss to his lips. "Yes, we will."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> phew i really missed writing proper arguing bellarke!! lemme know what you thought w a kudos or a comment :)
> 
> i'm also [on tumblr](http://scifibi.tumblr.com) and [on twitter](https://twitter.com/scifibis)


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